


Yeah

by apinknightmare



Series: Dust to Dust [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: ACTUAL FLUFF, Birthday, F/M, Licking, Syrup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 06:22:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3518681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apinknightmare/pseuds/apinknightmare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Felicity tries to make Oliver pancakes for his birthday, but when things go wrong, they go very, very right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yeah

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to start posting one shots in the Dust to Dust series as individual stories, so they're easier to find if you like one more than the others.

Oliver Queen spent his sixteenth birthday behind the wheel of a shiny red Porsche 911, the keys to which his father handed him the very second he rolled out of bed that morning. It was the best day of his young life, speeding across the long, winding roads that weaved through the Starling City countryside.

His eighteenth birthday was spent in a bungalow off the shores of Thailand, drunk off his ass with his best friend Tommy and a handful of naked women whose names Oliver would never remember. Maybe he never knew them in the first place.

He celebrated the beginning of his twenty-fifth year on this earth by huddling over a fire right next to the plane fuselage he called home on Lian Yu, feasting on a rabbit he had all to himself.

The morning he turns thirty two, he sits at the island in the middle of his kitchen, watching the love of his life make him pancakes.

Well, she’s _trying_ to make him pancakes. She’s failing at it—adorably, he might add—if the smell of burnt batter wafting through the air is any indication. He thinks failure looks good on her though; she’s standing at the stove wearing the t-shirt she practically ripped off of him last night. It’s all wrinkled from the time it spent tossed carelessly on the floor of their bedroom, and the v-neck falls provocatively low on her chest, exposing just a hint of her left shoulder. He loves that shoulder, wants to put his mouth on it (again).

Felicity’s hair is an untamable mess of curls, wild in a way that it only gets after a night spent _not_ sleeping. Oliver wants to gather those curls between his fingers and press his face against her neck. He wants to breathe deep and drink in the comforting smell of her: fruity shampoo with a hint of laundry detergent and him.

“Need some help?” he asks, as he watches her slide her fourth or fifth (he’s lost count at this point) ruined pancake into the trash can.

“I’ve got it,” she replies, adorably frustrated as she pours another circle of batter into the sizzling pan.

Oliver presses his hand against his mouth to hide his smile, fully aware that there was a time not too long ago when he thought he’d never be this kind of happy. Assassins and mistakes and deals with the devil had a way of stealing his joy; lucky for him, Felicity had a way of helping him find it again.

Oliver used to think he’d be fighting for his life for the rest of his life, however little was left of it. Now he doesn’t think about time so much; he just enjoys every precious minute he gets, and tries not to get too caught up in the bad times. When he finds the darkness of his past clawing at him, he thinks back to the rush of happiness he felt when Felicity slid a platinum wedding band on his left ring finger and promised to love him for the rest of her life.

Pancakes weren’t part of that bargain. Oliver figures that’s for the best because Felicity’s burning them. Again.

“I’ve built some of the world’s most innovative tech,” she mutters to herself. “I can make a damn pancake.”

She really, really can’t though, and Oliver thinks it’s the most precious thing in the world. She’s the most precious thing in the world to him, so he’s going to let her off the hook. He stands up, walks over to the stove and turns off the flame, then moves the overworked frying pan off the burner.

“Oliver,” Felicity says, the beginning of a protest. “Just-”

He cuts her off by pressing a kiss to the gentle curve where her neck meets her shoulder, then he grips her waist and turns her toward him before lifting her up onto the counter. She lets out this long-suffering sigh that blows a tendril of hair across her forehead as Oliver steps between her thighs, his favorite place to be.

“Hey,” he breathes, hoping she’ll look up at him. But her eyes are fixated on her lap, her fingers twisting together in that way they do when she feels unsure of herself, or like she’s let him down, and today that just won’t do. “Felicity. Hey,” he tries again, before he crooks his finger underneath her chin and lifts her head until her blue eyes meet his. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Yes it is. It’s your birthday, and I wanted it to be special.”

“You already made it pretty special if I remember correctly,” he replies suggestively, his voice all low as he recalls waking up to light kisses peppered around his belly button and down, _down_ , the ends of her sunny hair tickling his skin and setting every single nerve ending on fire.

Oliver can practically see the blood rushing to her cheeks, and he loves that he can still make her blush. Somehow he’s managed to tease a smile out of her, and it feels like the best present she could possibly give him.

“Pancakes are your birthday thing, and I wanted to make them for you. I got your favorite syrup and everything.” She gestures weakly to the pristine white plates beside her, sliced strawberries fanned out along the rim with a small pitcher of syrup off to the side.

She’s gone to so much trouble for him, the very least he can do is let her know how much he appreciates it. So, he leans in close and rubs the tip of his nose against hers. Then he kisses her sweetly and moves lower, brushing his whiskers along the hollow of her throat and across her clavicle.

He can feel her relaxing, giving in. She puts one hand on his shoulder and slides it up until it comes to rest at the nape of his neck. She gives the hair there a little tug; that drives him crazy and she knows it. Her hand on that spot just…makes all his bells and whistles go off.

“We can still use the syrup,” Oliver says, all keyed up as he reaches for a strawberry.

“Yeah?” Felicity’s voice is breathy; it makes Oliver’s heart skip a beat.

“Yeah.” He dips the strawberry in the warm syrup, brings it up to her collarbone where he paints a messy, sticky line. Then he leans forward and sucks it clean off. When he looks up at Felicity, her soft pink lips are slightly parted, her eyelids heavy as she watches him.

He wonders if she knows exactly what that look does to him. If not, she’s about to find out.

Oliver gives the strawberry another dip, then slides it along her bottom lip before offering it to her. She chews, then he goes in for the kill, licking his way into her mouth. She tastes sweet and warm. Perfect.

“I could eat the syrup off of pancakes,” he says, obviously eyeing another strawberry. “But I’d rather eat it off of you.”

Felicity’s breath catches. “Yeah?”

Oliver grins, he can’t help it. He’s got her big, beautiful brain short circuiting to the point where she only seems to know one word, and he feels a little proud about it.

She slides her hands down his chest until they reach his hips, and her fingertips skim along the waistband of his pants, teasing goosebumps out of his skin. Oliver feels a little fuzzy—dizzy and lovestruck—until Felicity’s fingernails skip along the ridges along his stomach, and now he’s the one who can’t form a coherent thought. She must sense his weakness, because she wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him closer.

She’s so warm and soft, and if he just pushed himself up a bit he could…he could…

Felicity kisses her way along his jaw, until her lips brush the shell of his ear. “I can’t make pancakes,” she says, her voice all low in that way that makes every part of him loose and rigid at the same time. “But I’m pretty good at this, don’t you think?”

She takes his earlobe between her teeth and pulls, and…and…

“Answer me,” she whispers with a flick of her tongue.

“Yeah,” he replies.

_Yeah._


End file.
